


Clocks

by BirdSpell



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, HetaOni
Genre: 2P HetaOni, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, M/M, Memory Loss, Mentions of Character Death, Minor breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdSpell/pseuds/BirdSpell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything's wrong, but you'll sort it out. The clocks can't tick forever, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clocks

It's wrong.

It's all _wrong_ , this whole twisted scenario, and you know it from the moment you step through the door. But maybe the scenario is fine and you're the one who's twisted. It wouldn't be the first time. And you can hear it, you think, every time you so much as blink in this thrice-damned mansion. A slow and steady _tick-tock tick tock t i c k t o c k_ getting slower and slower until you just want to scream. Or maybe time is the same and you're moving faster, who knows?

Red eyes blink closed—tick-tock—and open again, and maybe you're crying a little because there's liquid dripping down your cheeks and Italy is shooting you weird looks, almost concerned but that's wrong because Italy doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself and sometimes Germany, not you, never you, and not Prussia either-

 _Prussia_ is a coward and he always has been, but it's a constant, so you're almost scared when something shatters and he merely steps back, startled, doesn't scream like Germany. You volunteer to check it out regardless, and his sardonic warning ( _Don't let the ghosts get you_ ) is almost-comforting. Not enough to deter your irritable response ( _Shut up, Prussia_ ), of course, but it's still a comfort.

Then you return and they're gone, and you'll never admit it but you break down, just a little; you're screaming their names in your head and of course they don't answer but you daren't make a sound aloud. You find them, Germany and Prussia and Italy, and you hide your relief beneath layers of your usual cynicism. They don't seem to notice the difference, really, but there's one time, just before you fall asleep, when you meet Prussia's eyes and his eyebrows rise questioningly. You scowl and shake your head, and he shrugs, settling into his seat. That'll be the end of it, you think.

But when you wake up he's gone and there's blood in the hallway, and maybe you offer to look for him a little too fast, but this place is deadly and your nerves are shot after listening all night to the slow _t i c k t o c k_ of the clock in your head, and there's panic running through your veins instead of blood. You look and look, but you find the Allies rather than your kind-of-sort-of friend. You're so damn angry and frustrated and terrified, and you fight harder and harder with every passing heartbeat because the panicky, uncontrollable, inexplicable _desperation_ just keeps getting _worse_ and you know that he's in danger.

When you find him, find them, you're so relieved your legs nearly give out from under you. You catch yourself in time and you think that it's fine, but you feel eyes on you and look up to see dull blue gazing at you in questioning-concern, and it's strange because you and Prussia were never that close, really, but even so you force yourself to nod in silent reassurance because weakness means _death_ , that's what Chuugoku taught you all those years ago, and no matter how much you want to cling to Prussia and never let go—because you were so damn scared it _hurt_ and that has to mean something—you'll stick to that lesson until you don't have the strength to hold your sword.

And then something is ever-so- _wrong_ even if you don't know what, and you wake halfway through the night with a silent scream on your lips and a mind-numbing terror from the dream you can't remember filling your heart and pinning you down. You can't breathe, you can't think, maybe your heart is stopping because you can feel it missing beats and you gasp, trying to force air into suddenly uncooperative lungs-

Then there are hands on your shoulders and dull blue eyes stare into your own tear-filled terror-blinded red. Prussia calls your name softly, and you calm, slowly, juddering gasps making their way through your system as air finally reaches your lungs. There's a long moment when all you can hear is the other nations breathing.

Then Prussia tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask the question you're dreading, and suddenly you're _sobbing_ , silent tears pouring down your cheeks, and you bury your face in your hands because you don't want to look at him anymore. Look at you, crying like a baby, what would Korea say? What will Prussia say, when he speaks? And- Oh gods, what if he tells the others? You can't threaten him into silence, not after this, so what's stopping him?

Your panicked train of thought is broken off by hands hesitantly curling around your shoulders to settle, one on your lower back, the other resting in your hair, and you're pulled forward to lean securely against a warm chest. You don't question, then, what will happen; you simply cry into Prussia's muscular chest, let him wrap his cloak around the both of you and hush you like a child, hand stroking your hair as he hums some old lullaby.

And, when the sobs die down into hiccupped breaths and the tears stop flowing, he simply brushes his fingers against your cheeks to clear away the tears and pulls you to your feet, leading you to the bathroom, where he quietly instructs you to splash water on your face to wash away the tear tracks. When you've done that, he doesn't ask, but suddenly you remember the dream and you know why, exactly, this place feels so wrong. And even though he didn't ask, you tell him, because there are some things you know better than to keep to yourself and after the dream you know you can trust him.

 _We died_ , you tell him quietly, one hand rising to touch your chest where there was once a claw and a wound that went all the way through. You bled out, that time, all alone in the dark. _A lot_.

 _Yes_ , he replies. He doesn't question, or doubt. It's an acknowledgment, nothing more. A calm acceptance of fact. Either he simply trusts you just like that—doubtful—or…

 _You knew_. It's a statement, but also a question, and he treats it as such.

 _Yes,_ he says again.

 _Why didn't you say anything?_ you ask carefully. You're not sure if you really want the answer.

Prussia shrugs, looking at you with undeniable worry. _You didn't_ , he says simply.

Another dream—another memory—slips to the forefront of your mind, and you can't help but smile to yourself, to him. _Gilen_ , you say quietly.

 _Kuro_ , he replies, and his tone makes it clear how much he's missed you; the you who remembers, the you who knows what happened and what the two of you did so many loops ago to make the burden easier, and that's why you remember and the others don't. And now, knowing everything, you don't know why you chose to forget, last loop, the one you dreamt about, the one that ended with a claw through your chest and imagining Gilen calling your name inside your head.

You know, now, who you are. Not Japan, but Honda Kuro, not just nation, but human. And Gilen is here and it's not wrong anymore, because you're not alone, and he's not the only one who remembers.

And you smile for the first time in what feels like forever, and when he pulls you close and kisses you, you allow it, because you need the contact as much as he does.

When you close your eyes, the clock has stopped ticking. But time goes on and you laugh softly against Gilen's lips, because you have all the time in the world.


End file.
